


Moving Forward

by CptEmie



Series: Fire at the Heart of the World [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Pregnancy, Romance, Unplanned Pregnancy, proposal, the fluffiest of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-13 22:23:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4539675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CptEmie/pseuds/CptEmie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An impending visit from the King and Queen of Ferelden to sign an alliance has Skyhold in an uproar, but Inquisitor Constance Trevelyan has much more on her plate - she has to figure out a way to let Blackwall know they have a child on the way, and hopefully not give him a heart attack in the process. Fluffy fluff and romance, because I can.</p><p>AU where my Warden Queen comes back from her journey early and someone from Constance's past returns :D</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chores

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever posted fic. Kindness appreciated, I'm apprehensive about this.

“New blood, humming and shining. Broad like him and gold like her. Breathe…” Cole was playing with the brim of his hat.  
  
“Oh good,” Dorian sat down on the edge of the bench, squeezing in between Constance Trevelyan and Varric. “Nothing like being creeped out over breakfast.” He jiggled a cup at Constance. “Tea, I beg of you,” he pleaded.  
  
She poured his cup and Cole looked at her intently. “You know.” He informed her.  
  
“I know a lot of things.” She reminded him.  
  
“What do you know, love?” Blackwall crooked a curious eyebrow at her.  
  
“Apparently,” she chuckled, kissing the tip of Blackwall’s nose, “I know to breathe.” Sometimes he got caught up in the mysticism of having Cole around. And then, she turned to the table: with Dorian awake at last, everyone was present. “Josephine?” She offered command of the group to the ambassador.  
  
“Thank you, Your Worship.” Josephine produced a stack of parchment out of nowhere began handing out sheets. “You will remember, of course, that their Majesties the King and Queen of Ferelden will be here in just two short days. These are your last minute chores, to help get the last few things finished before their arrival.”  
Every morning had been like this. New assignments, warnings to behave (mostly directed at Sera and the Bull), and reminders to be clean and presentable (Varric and Blackwall).  
  
“You will all have your formal attire double checked by myself and Madame de Fer today. If you are not going to be in your quarters, be advised that we will be.”  
  
Blackwall snorted at the image of Vivienne standing in the hayloft and Constance elbowed his ribs. No one wanted Josephine upset this week. The advisers were greatly on edge. Leliana was fidgeting when she sat, drumming her fingers on her knees – and when she moved? She darted around the keep with more than her usual alarming speed. Even Cullen was more nervous that usual. His soldiers had been scrubbed and polished, drilled and dressed.  
  
Josephine was going on again about manners and Ferelden customs, but Constance was face down over her brimming teacup, thinking about what Cole had said. Shimmering and shining, broad and golden. She screwed her eyes shut and tried to imagine what that might mean.  
  
“Inquisitor?” She heard Leliana over the mire of her thoughts. “Inquisitor? Are you feeling well?” Blackwall’s hand was on her back and Dorian’s eyebrows were raised in concern. Maker’s breath, how long had she not been listening?  
  
“Forgive me,” Constance forced a smile. “I was reviewing the list of guests in my head.” They all knew she was lying. She was a terrible liar. But they also knew that when the lie was quiet and professional – as this one had been – that it was better to leave her to her thoughts. She would seek out the help she needed in due course.  
  
“To work, then?” Josephine suggested. The others groaned, but acquiesced. They began filing out of the main hall comparing notes and looking for overlapping duties that they could do together. Blackwall trailed away, fingers lingering on her arm until he was out of reach.  
  
“No list for me, Josie?” Constance clung to her tea as she rose.  
  
“I would never presume to give you chores, Your Worship,” she smiled. “Madame de Fer and I will be with you after noon prayers, if that does not interfere with the rest of your day. I will have our luncheon brought to your quarters.”  
  
“You think of everything.” The Inquisitor truly was grateful for Lady Montilyet – she would never have been able to navigate the complicated politics of Thedas alone. Constance smiled broadly, a gesture of assurance. She knew Josephine was driving herself mad with planning.


	2. Always

Constance climbed the stairs to her quarters slowly. She had reports to read – endless stacks of them – and letters that Josephine had marked for personal reply. The better part of her day, it seemed, would be spent at her desk.  
  
When she finally flung open the door to her chamber, she found Blackwall (boots, gloves, and jacket discarded) sitting on the small sofa by her banister. “Shirking Josephine’s list so soon?” She asked. A grin tugged across her face when he turned and looked up at her.  
  
“Not at all, my lady.” He held up his small slip of parchment, which read – in Josephine’s elegant, curly hand – “Keep Her Worship smiling.”  
  
“That could mean any number of things,” she teased, plopping down in his lap. His arms snaked around her and his lips found the back of her neck. She purred, sinking into him and relishing how small she felt in his arms.  
  
“You lied to Leliana at breakfast, my love,” he looked down at her now, curled up in his lap, and she tipped her head backward to meet his eyes.  
  
“I know.” She bit her lip and turned pink. She still embarrassed easily, despite being at the top of the Inquisition’s food chain (and, Dorian constantly reminded her, the most powerful woman in Thedas). She still occasionally felt like a child around them all. With the exceptions of Cole and Sera, she was easily the youngest member of the echelon, having only been 16 when the fifth Blight struck.  
  
“What worries you?” He held her gaze steady. Maker, he beamed at her. Even with concern sweeping across his brow, it could not hide how much he lifted in her presence.  
  
“Just fighting a cold,” she nudged his chin with her forehead and buried her face in the small patch of chest hair peaking out from the undone buttons at the top of his tunic. It tickled her nose, and she grinned at the feeling. “But Maker help me if I’ll let the others know I’m feeling under the weather.”  
  
“What else?” He prompted. To him, her half truths were as obvious as her lies.  
  
She groaned into his chest, clamping her eyes shut. “It’s silly,” she warned.  
  
“Then let’s have a laugh over it,” he suggested.  
  
With a deep breath, and as fast as she could manage, she said: “Josie’s going to tell me I have to take the first dance of the ball with King Alistair and I’m nervous I’ll look like a fool and embarrass everyone and ruin all this hard work.”  
  
“Oh, my dove,” he could not (or would not) hold back his laughter. That deep honest laughter that shook his whole body and rumbled against her. “The weight of the world on your shoulders and you’re worried about a dance.”  
  
“I told you it was silly.” She was bright red from her nose all the way to the tips of her ears.  
  
“Why don’t you practice with Dorian?” He suggested. He wanted to say he would help, but he knew her cousin was the best possible candidate for such a task. Besides which, they would enjoy the time together.  
  
“He’ll tease me endlessly,” she shook her head.  
  
“Of course he will,” Blackwall nodded. “But you’ll find something to fire back with. Black hair, magical blood, and sparkling wit – those are the genetics you share.”  
  
New blood. Humming and shining… Cole’s words still rang in her ears. Her head swam in them, grasping at their implications, desperate to quiet the fears they roused in her. The longer she meditated on them, the guiltier she felt. “Thom, I need to tell you something.” She blurted out. She drew back from him and tucked her legs up under her chin.  
  
“What is it, my love?” He was suddenly terribly concerned. She only called him Thom when things were either very serious or very passionate. The first time she had panted his given name under furs in the hayloft it had put him over the edge immediately. No, better not think about that now – not when her brows were making a gully across her forehead.  
  
“I went to Solas yesterday – about my cold. It was getting worse in some ways and better in others and I thought I’d rather have him look me over than Mother Giselle.” Constance’s regard for the Revered Mother had dwindled steadily since the day Giselle had all but flat-out ordered her to stop spending time with Dorian simply because he was Tevinter. “And, well,” she cleared her throat and blinked back a well of tears.  
  
“It’s okay, dove,” he reached for her hand and tangled his big, rough fingers through her long, delicate ones. “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”  
  
“Solas seems to think it’s not a cold at all.” She buried her face in her knees and groaned. “He says I’m –” Maker, the words just wouldn’t come. “Solas believes I am…expecting.”  
Blackwall froze. Hand clasped in hers, eyes wide, jaw slack.  
  
“Andraste preserve me,” the torrent of tears burst forth. “This wasn’t how I wanted to tell you. Or how I imagined this would happen.” He still had not blinked. “Maker’s breath, Thom, say something. Please?”  
  
When he finally began to move again there was a tremble on his lips and tears in his eyes. “Maker…” he breathed.  
  
“Thom?” She was sobbing into the collar of her tunic, tugged up over her nose.  
  
He brought himself to rights, cupping her damp face in his hands and absolutely glowing at her. A beaming smile stretched his face and crinkled his eyes. “Is Solas certain?” He asked quietly.  
  
She nodded. “Cole was on about it this morning, as well. He must have sensed something.”  
  
Tugging her into him by their intertwined hands, he enveloped her, almost swallowing her against him. His strong arms wrapped themselves around her slender shoulders. His coarse face found her soft cheek. “Dove, is this something you want?”  
  
The question had haunted her since Solas had returned from the Fade with his diagnosis. She could die any day, at any moment. Corypheus could descend upon them. An assassin could manage to poison her dinner. A dragon might finally get the best of them. A demon might overcome her. How much would a pregnancy strain her ability to fight? To lead? Would it affect her magic? Interrupt her ability to control rifts? There was no way to know. For that matter, what would Blackwall want? He was not young anymore, she knew that. Would he want to spend the years ahead of him chasing children – navigating a new family? Would he be able to embrace a magical child? Or would he, like her own father, shrink in fear when their child showed their first magic? Or worse, what if she was hurt in battle? What if she lost the baby? Would he even be able to look at her? Would he still love her if she failed him like that? But then, the thought of him holding their baby seemed always to win out over her fears.  
  
They sat on her sofa, staring at each other. “I love you,” she said finally. “And I want to be with you. Always.”  
  
“And I, you,” he reminded her.  
  
“I’ve thought a great deal about this. Imagined our small cabin with its garden and the sound of small voices.” The daydream was a frequent one. “But I would not pressure you into anything you did not feel ready for. I think,” she closed her eyes and prayed for strength. “I think that even if you did not want this, I would do it alone.”  
  
“Oh, dove,” he pulled her into a desperate kiss. Lips fighting to assuage her fears and quiet her worries. “Dove, how could I not want this?” He kissed her eyelids, cheekbones, jaw, cheeks, lips, the tips of her ears. He cradled her as though she were the rarest flower in all Thedas, and he began to weep from joy. He had done nothing to deserve her. He was not worthy of even a glance from her, and yet she loved him – cherished him – wanted to bear his child. “Constance,” her name was a prayer on his lips. “I’ll build our home from its foundation. I will nail every board myself. You will never want for anything.” And, with a breathless sigh. “Our child shall never want for anything.”  
  
“What if they’re born with magic?” She trembled. Her magic had cost her the love of her entire family. It had stolen her youth and broken her heart and dictated her whole life.  
He lifted her chin gently and smiled again. “Then they shall be the spitting image of their mother, and I shall love them all the more.”  
  
“Broad like him and gold like her,” she repeated Cole’s words again. “I wonder what that means.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More is coming! I've written the entire thing, but I tend to longhand in my notebook at work and have to type bits up when I get home. Patience appreciated :)


	3. Conversation

When Constance left for prayer at noon bells, Blackwall made for the central tower of the keep. He pushed through the thick crowd in the main hall, thoroughly confusing several servants and more than a few visiting nobles: none of whom had ever seen him smile. Taking the winding steps to the library two at a time, Blackwall didn’t even notice Solas sitting on a bench on the dark side of his solar, smiling pleasantly. She had the courage to tell him quickly. Good.  
  
“Dorian!” Blackwall sprang forward off the stairwell and almost bounced toward the corner where the mage’s favourite armchair sat.  
  
The last few hours had been full of discussion: their future, their child, their preparations. Who to tell, who not to tell (no one would be told at all until after the Ferelden Royal Ball, they agreed). But one decision Blackwall had made quietly; on his own. And – much though he hated to admit it – he needed to talk to Dorian first.  
  
“By the Maker,” Dorian laughed. “You almost sound happy.”  
  
“I am. That is – I hope to be.” Blackwall confessed. “Dorian, come and have a drink with me.”  
  
In the Rest, Blackwall found a table away from the crowds and asked the barmaid to fetch a bottle of Dorian’s favourite wine. Along with it came a charger of fresh bread, aged cheese, and roasted bird for each of them.  
  
“I’m grateful for the attention, but I daresay Constance might object to you courting me so suddenly,” he quipped.  
  
“This may be the hardest thing I ever have to say to you Dorian, but you’re not my type.” Blackwall tore into his lunch.  
  
“Andraste preserve me, did you just tease me?” Dorian clasped a hand over his heart and fluttered his eyelashes, lips quirked into a smile. “What has our dear girl done to make you so jolly?” That’s what they called her, the two of them. ‘Our dear girl.’ She was the only woman in all of Thedas that truly meant anything to either of them.  
  
Blackwall’s tone became decidedly more serious. “In a bizarre quirk of fate Dorian, I must ask you something rather important.” The warrior set down his wine and wiped his hands on his trousers: sweat and breadcrumbs – a terrible combination.  
  
“You sound as though you were about to ask me for Constance’s hand.” Dorian guffawed at the very thought. The idea of it would have made her furious. Blackwall’s face sank. All appetite gone, all mirth dissolved. Dorian was right – how could he have possibly thought this was a good idea? His shoulders scrunched imperceptibly. Realizing all at once that that was precisely what Blackwall had meant to do, Dorian snorted into his wine – the mouthful of drink burning through his nose. He choked gracelessly and when he had finally regained himself, he looked the man across from him in the eye with wondrous severity. “You’re serious?”  
  
“Deadly serious.” Blackwall nodded. “I might have lost my courtly manners, but I know to ask a ladies’ family for their blessing.”  
  
“You didn’t ask me for permission to shag her.” Dorian pointed out.  
  
“Forgive me. It would’ve ruined the mood to have to track you down while she waited in the loft.”  
  
“True enough.” Dorian folded his hands on the table between them. “Now then.” The made cleared his throat dramatically. “What are your intentions towards my cousin?”  
Blackwall rolled his eyes. Leave it to Dorian to turn a conversation this meaningful into some sort of comical farce. “I’ve just said; I intend to marry her.”  
  
“What can you offer her?” Dorian’s face betrayed no mirth. Perhaps he was taking this seriously after all?  
  
“Constancy of affection. Unending love. Every ounce of work I’ll do for the rest of my life will be for her safety, comfort, and happiness. I’ll build her a home with my own two hands. I will put food on her table and coin in her purse.”  
  
“She is young,” Dorian pointed out. “She will surely outlive you.” A cruel fact to raise, but this was the time to raise it. As much as he kidded Blackwall, he did want them both to be happy.  
  
“Everything that was mine will be hers, to keep her safe and provided for,” Blackwall could not hide a smile now, “and to provide for our children after I am gone.”  
  
“Children?” Dorian quirked an eyebrow.  
  
“Provided she should desire any.” Blackwall added hastily. They had, after all, agreed not to tell anyone yet.  
  
“I know you love her, Blackwall,” Dorian leaned forward slightly. “Of course. Everyone knows how you love her. But is this the time to speak of marriage? With Corypheus looming and an Archdemon breathing down our throats?”  
  
This, they had discussed: whether family and happiness was appropriate or even achievable in the midst of a war. He echoed their earlier sentiments: “If we must face the end of the world tomorrow, I want to face it with her as my wife.”  
  
At this, Dorian smiled. It was precisely the correct answer. The romantic answer. The answer that showed he meant it. “Then, ser,” Dorian raised his glass. “You have my blessing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who hasn't played as a Trevelyan Inquisitor, Dorian mentions to them in dialogue at Skyhold that they are very distantly related. For Constance and Dorian, this is a major bonding point.


	4. Preparation

Constance stood still as a statue on the small stool Vivienne’s seamstress had placed her atop. Yards and yards of emerald green fabric hung off of her in waves. She was chattering with Josephine about the Hero of Ferelden – Queen Thomasyn had once been the Nightingale’s best friend – and they had endless speculation as to what she might be like.

  
“I hear she is a beautiful dancer,” Josephine gushed. “Leliana sends her dancing shoes every year for her Name-day gift.”

Dancing. Constance’s stomach turned and her shoulders slumped. Vivienne instantly jumped to straighten them. “Josie, just tell me now. How many formal dances am I expected to take part in?”

The ambassador giggled. The Inquisitor was always overly concerned with formalities of any kind. “Three, Your Worship. The first dance will be yourself and King Alistair, and then you will dance with Teryn Cousland, her Majesty’s brother.”

“And thirdly?”

“Thirdly, we would like you to dance with the Commander during the start of the formal dinner.”

“Cullen? Why?” Constance keened her head slightly.

“Because it is good form, my dear?” Vivienne intoned. “You are practically an empress, my dear. It doesn’t look well to have you dancing with the peasantry.”

Constance understood her perfectly Josephine jumped forward before the Inquisitor could tangle her fingers in the Grand Enchanter’s robes and shred her limb from limb.

“Because!” Josephine snapped. “Because it is important that Cullen shows his face at the ball; and because it will look well for a warrior to show his grace.” Josephine took Constance’s hand girlishly. “And because it will embarrass him to no end.”

“And then I may dance with whomever I like?” Constance prompted.

“And then you may dance, or steal away, or do whatever you like. Dinner, three dances, and the formal declaration of the Ferelden-Inquisition alliance. Those are what are required of you at the ball.”

The Inquisitor nodded with a sigh. Three dances that were not with Blackwall. Well, at least one of them would be with Cullen. They could hate it together.


	5. Anticipation

“So when are we doing this?” Varric rubbed his hands together excitedly. “Maker, please make it public. Very public. Damsel will be so embarrassed she’ll almost fall over, but she’ll love it.”

  
Dorian and Blackwall had enlisted Varric’s assistance in planning the proposal – because if you had a romance author at your disposal during such a time you were a fool not to seek his help.

“Nothing more public than a ball.” Dorian wiggled his eyebrows.

“Maker’s balls,” Blackwall shook his head. “She’d murder us.”

“It’s a love story for the ages, Hero,” Varric clapped him on the back. “Boy meets girl, girl flirts mercilessly with boy, boy is absolutely powerless against her advances, girl forgives boy’s faults, boys asks for her hand in front of friends, loved ones, and royalty.” He nodded. “I could live like a king on the sales of that one book alone.”

“I think I’d rather drink dragon piss than do this in front of you lot.” Blackwall said finally. “This is for her and me.”

“What is?” Emerging from the shadows, Leliana placed herself firmly on the bench next to Dorian, across from Blackwall.

“Maker –” Blackwall groaned.

“She’ll find out anyway.” Varric pointed out.

“She knows everything.” Dorian agreed.

Blackwall started to protest, but Leliana leaned toward him, chin resting in one long hand. “You’re going to ask her, aren’t you?” She asked quietly.

Like a schoolboy with a crush, Blackwall broke out into a wide grin. “Soon.” He confided.

News spread around the keep like wildfire. Unsolicited advice found its way to Blackwall’s ears once an hour. He was beside himself with worry that Constance would hear of it from anyone other than him – any time other than when he asked. To get away from it, he buried himself in the soot of the smithy and began to forge a ring. He broke only to take meals with her, not forgetting Josephine’s explicit instructions to keep her smiling. As if he would do anything else.  
At dinner the night before the king and queen’s arrival, as the main hall buzzed with energy, Constance had a funny feeling that a whole lot of people were paying much too much attention to them.

“People will always gossip, my lady,” he assured her. “They cannot stand it that the most radiant woman in the room is already spoken for. It drives them mad with envy.” His mustache tickled her neck when he kissed it and she giggled quietly. From the other side of the hall, a soldier cat called. Someone else let fly an enthusiastic wolf whistle. Constance and Blackwall grinned at each other and both turned pink. You could barely see the blush under his beard, but she knew it was there. She tilted her head up and kissed him gently on his cheek – and a smattering of applause broke out.

“They’re awfully keen on us lately, aren’t they?” She asked, smothering another giggle with her hand.

“It’s because you’re glowing, my lady, and not in the usual green way.” He held her Anchor-bearing hand and kissed her fingertips. “They are glad that their Inquisitor is happy.”

Aside from her now daily morning nausea; she was bearing the early signs of her pregnancy well. It was handy that she already drank tea with every meal because Solas had set her on a tincture of embrium and spindleweed for her stomach. She simply informed the kitchen that she was trying a new mixture of herbs and that was that. Unless you saw her with her head over a basin in the morning, you would never know.

Tea being drunk and dinner being eaten, Constance excused herself to her quarters to have a few more hours with her file on the delegation from Ferelden. Blackwall slipped off to the smithy to continue his work, having promised to come to her later in the night when so many eyes would not be on them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varric, of course, has nicknames for everyone. He calls Constance 'Damsel' because of her affinity for heroic adventures, fairy tales, and stories of courtly romance. And because she is obviously FAR from being in distress.


	6. Alliance

The next morning had all of Skyhold in an upheaval. Troops scurried into formation up and down the mountain. The refugees in the valley were singing while they tended to the gardens they had planted on the sides of the road up the mountain. The kitchens were churning out food for what seemed like all of Thedas.

Shortly after breakfast Skyhold’s bells began to ring. “Open the gates!” Shouted the guards on the wall. “Make way for their Majesties! Open the gates!” Identically dressed in their red velvet formal attire, the Inquisitor, her advisers, and all of the inner circle descended the steps of the keep.

A great train of horses was crossing the bridge led by a pair of twin Ferelden stallions. The king and queen had arrived.

Wary of her footing, Inquisitor Trevelyan bowed deeply when the couple dismounted. They bowed back, and King Alistair stepped forward to shake the Inquisitor’s hand. He had just turned to introduce his wife when a blast of plush velvet and ginger hair swept past him and enveloped Her Majesty.

Giggling, shouting with delight, and sounding rather unlike Constance had ever heard her, Leliana had her arms about her old friend’s waist and was hugging with all of her strength. Sister Nightingale, one of the most feared women in Thedas, kissed the king and queen heartily on each cheek and brought them up to the keep with everyone else in tow.

The formal reception would last hours: careful introduction of each and every delegate from both parties and careful recitations of careful words. Not on of the interested parties held the slightest stock in political ceremony. Alistair, Thomasyn, and Constance were all eager to have the formal bits done with so that they could enjoy each other’s company.

Josephine had scheduled today down to the minute. Today was business. After the formal introductions in the main hall, luncheon was served. The delegation from Ferelden were then shown to their rooms, each by a member of the inner circle.

Having an hour to rest and bathe, the delegation were then admitted to the war room. A second banquet table had been loaded into the room and on it were laid three inkwells and three feather pens. The length of the table was occupied by a mass of parchment – the alliance that Josephine and the Ferelden royal advisers had so painstakingly worded. It promised aide for troops and refugees, soldiers for the cause, political support, and was strongly indicative of a larger peace accord between Ferelden and Orlais.

For four hours, Constance sat across the table from the royals with Cullen on her right and Leliana on her left. Josephine stood, reading. Teryn Cousland and Bann Teagan, on either side of their Majesties, looked just as bored as they felt. Every one of them had read the accord. They had approved the wording. But the formalities had to be observed.  
  
When the recitation was finally over, the Inquisitor dipped her hawk pen in ink and carefully scripted “Lady Inquisitor Constance Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste” in the appropriate place. The full title always made her twinge with self-consciousness.

Beneath it, side by side signatures soon read “King Alistair Therein of Ferelden” and “Queen Thomasyn Therein, Warden-Commander of Ferelden” and then Constance melted a large amount of wax next to their names and pressed the Eye of the Inquisition firmly in place.  
  
The room took a palpable, collective breath. No Venatori had stormed the proceedings, no angry chevaliers had broken down the door, and no Red Templars came storming up the mountainside. The alliance was signed and sealed. The Inquisition would have help from the crown in the fight against Corypheus and Ferelden would have Inquisition aide for all of its people. “Maker be praised,” Constance sighed quietly.  
  
The tour of Skyhold was entirely more enjoyable now that their business was taken care of. King Alistair walked between Leliana and Cullen – and it was only then that Constance remembered that Cullen had met the king during the Blight, when they were both young men.  
  
The Queen looped her arm through Constance’s while they walked together. Her Majesty’s dress armour was a brilliant set of scrubbed and oiled dragonskin leathers with a magnificent griffon surrounded by proud lions on the breastplate. Her Majesty the Warden-Commander. Constance was good and intimidated until the Queen squeezed her elbow gently. “You have done remarkable work.” She assured the younger woman. “I flatter myself to think we are alike, Your Worship.”  
  
“How so, your Majesty?” Constance tried not to blush.  
  
“Oh, two rather sheltered noblewomen thrust into saving the ones they love with nothing but a half-trained weapon hand and faith in their Maker?”  
“When you put it like that, you Majesty—”  
  
“And with an eye for our comrade in arms?” The queen had spotted Blackwall at the side of their group several times, keeping his watchful eye on Constance at every turn.  
  
Constance’s ears burned bright red. “In times of war and sorrow, one must celebrate whatever joy they can find.” They were words from the mouth of a Chantry sister at the Ostwick Circle – repeated like a mantra. She hastily added, “Your Majesty.” To the end of her thought.  
  
The Queen smiled. “Thomasyn will do nicely,” she said. “If I may call you Constance?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
The women kept in step with the rest of the group but continued their side conversation. Constance could see why the Spymaster so adored her old friend: she was as elegant and self-assured as any queen in history, but had a wicked sense of humour and a quick wit. Constance found herself very much admiring the queen, indeed.  
  
When they reached garden (the grand finale of the tour), Constance felt her knees buckle and her head swim. She dug her heels into the ground for stability, refusing to put any extra pressure on Queen Thomasyn’s arm that might give her away. Blackwall, true to his vigilance, saw her waiver right before her legs gave out. Darting forward easily, he caught her in his arms and held her straight.  
  
The Fereldens stared, altogether unsure of what was happening. Did the Inquisitor just faint?  
  
“Forgive me,” Constance managed to say. “My mark sometimes causes great waves of pain.” She looked up at Blackwall and bit back a smile, silently thanking him for not letting her fall on her ass in front of royalty. She turned to their Majesties: “If you would be so kind as to excuse me, I should rest a while before supper.”  
  
With bows and curtsies all around Constance took Blackwall’s arm again. “Serah Blackwall, if you would be so kind as to escort me?” Out of the corner of her eyes she distinctly saw Dorian smirk, Cassandra roll her eyes, and Josephine suppress a giggle. Blackwall led her from the garden.


	7. Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter introduces an OC from Constance's canon. He'll be mentioned further as I add more work about her history and origin.

“My love, what happened?” Blackwall had propped Constance up against her pillows and brewed a pot of Solas’ tea for her.  
  
“Nothing more than being weak on my feet,” she assured him, though she readily accepted the tea he poured.  
  
“It’s a bit early for fainting, isn’t it?” He asked, deeply concerned.  
  
“I don’t know, love, I’ve never been pregnant before.” She laughed to try to comfort him, and she succeeded.  
  
He kicked off his boots and piled his jacket and doublet on the sofa, crawling into bed with her when he was down to his tunic and trousers. She curled towards him and kissed his nose, feeling the great warmth of him against her. His outside hand found her belly and he brushed his fingers along her clothes where it fell just under her belly button.   
  
“Are you still in pain, dove?”  
  
“Not anymore.” She felt the hardness of his chest against the softness of her back and smiled.  
  
Every time she pulled closer to him, he had to readjust ever so slightly to keep her from feeling the small lump of metal and stone wrapped in a handkerchief in his pocket. He had finished the ring last night before midnight with the help of the Inquisition master smith, and now all he needed was the proper time. She was about to tease him about his squirming, but the Chantry rang eight bells and that meant they should be dressed for supper already. Pulling their formal attire back on, mage and warrior made their way back to the main hall.  
  
At supper, the last of the day’s formalities needed to be observed. While the delegation of nobles had been introduced early in the day, it was now time for Her Worship to receive the Ferelden Honour Guard – those soldiers and knights sworn to protect the King, Queen, and their company.  
  
Standing at attention in a line that spanned the length of the main hall, each warrior stood helmet in hand. The Inquisitor walked slowly down the line with King Alistair as he introduced each member of the guard, and the Inquisitor shook their hands and thanked them for their service and loyalty.  
  
When they reached the end of the line, the King paused in his steps. “Your Worship, my guard includes a knight who has requested to be transferred to the service of the Inquisition, if you will have him.”  
  
“We welcome any hand willing to fight in the Maker’s name.” She replied. It was Cullen’s wording, but a shared sentiment.  
  
“Thank you, Your Worship.” The knight at the end of the line was on one knee, head bowed so she could see only his graying auburn hair. But that voice. She knew that voice.  
  
“For your service, Your Worship, may I present—”  
  
“Ser Arthur Colling.” Constance Trevelyan said the name in a barely audible whisper.  
  
“I am glad to see you well, Your Worship.” Said the knight, head still bowed.  
  
King Alistair’s confusion was obvious. The Inquisitor brought the knight to his feet and put out her hand to him. It was all she could do to not sling her arms around his neck as she used to do when she was a small child. “I did not think to see you again, Ser.”  
  
“Nor I, you, Your Worship.” He took her hand with a warm smile. “I readily pledge myself and my sword to the Inquisitor and her Inquisition,” he said, loudly enough to echo down the hall. “It will be my honour to fight in her name.”  
  
“The Inquisitor!” A soldier on the side of the hall echoed, glass held high. Many voices joined in and many cups were raised to meet the name. Under the din, Constance quietly explained, “Your Majesty, this knight was once personal guard of myself and my brother. We were children then.” The last bit meant ‘before he died and I was sent to the Circle’, but the king did not need to know that.  
  
When the roar died down enough for her voice to rise above it, she called out: “Welcome to the Inquisition, Ser Colling.” And another great din erupted.

Much later that night, the Inquisitor made her way to the Rest to have a drink with her friends. Dorian, Blackwall, Varric, and Cassandra were piled around a table with another man, who proved to be Ser Colling.  
  
Now in the company of friends, she crept up behind the knight and flicked his ear soundly with two fingers. He did not flinch or turn around, but merely sipped his ale. “You still have not learned to attack upwind, little one. The smell of lavender gives you away.” She ran pink with embarrassment. She was a much more skilled fighter than ever before in her life, but Ser Colling would always be better.  
  
The knight turned around then, and stood, and smiled down on her. “I’m very proud of you, Your Worship, for what it’s worth.”  
  
They stood, smiling at each other: proud teacher and student. He regarded her paternally, seeing how the years had changed her: a scar over her lip that he did not know the story of, sureness in her step that had come with age, the ready way she held herself from years of living on a defensive. She saw in him all that he had been many years ago, and how his eyes had darkened and tired – how the crow’s feet around his eyes had deepened over time. She smiled again, and inclined her head. “It is worth everything, Ser.” And then, with a breath of morbid curiosity: “Have you any news of my family?”  
  
Colling shifted his weight between feet. “They are well, Your Worship. Maxim has taken over as Bann to allow your father to spend time with the Chantry.” Her father had always been an intensely religious man. It was the only thing they had in common, besides a shared nose. “Lady Grace has married, and now has a son and a daughter. Your mother spends the better part of her time doting on her grandchildren.”  
  
“I am glad they are well,” she said, but she only sounded sad.  
  
“Come on, Damsel, are we playing or what?” Varric tossed a deck of Wicked Grace cards at her and she laughed.  
  
“What are we betting this week?” She asked, settling down in the previously empty space between Ser Colling and Blackwall.  
  
“Dignity!” Dorian suggested.  
  
“None left,” Varric insisted.  
  
“Last man standing gets to avoid making a sentimental speech at the ball,” Cassandra suggested warily. She knew she would end up having to say something.  
“Winner makes up dance cards for the inner circle for the ball,” Constance said, starting to deal.  
  
“Not fair at all, my lady,” Blackwall pointed out. “You already have three dances accounted for by order of the ambassador.”  
  
“And I’m not pissing off Ruffles when manners are on the line.” Varric nodded.  
  
“Deepest in the hole at the end of the night leaves their smalls in their quarters for the night,” Dorian finally said, smirking. It was silly and entirely unimportant in the scheme of things but it would make them all laugh during what they feared might be an otherwise boring party.  
  
“In.” Constance checked her bet and felt Blackwall’s hand squeeze her knee.  
  
Ser Colling shook his head and tried to hide the fact that he was laughing. “This is hardly what I would call ladylike behaviour, Your Worship.”  
  
“With friends, I’m just Constance.” She reminded him.  
  
“Whatever you say, my lady,” murmured the men on either side of her.


	8. Surprise

The ball was about to begin, but Blackwall couldn’t force his feet to move. He was standing stark still in the barn with Varric and Dorian on either side of him.  
  
“Come on, Hero, you know she’s going to say yes.” Varric fidgeted, finding the lack of smalls a great discomfort. Damsel’s old bodyguard played a hell of a game of Wicked Grace.  
  
  
“You’re really only making it official. You both already know you want this.” Dorian agreed.  
  
“Maker’s balls.” Blackwall shook his head violently, as if he meant to shake cobwebs out from his ears. “Why does this have to be such a big production?” It took several minutes of staring at nothing followed by a string of rather violent curses, but Blackwall finally got his feet to move.  
  
The night air was cool on them as the three of them made their way towards the light of the main hall, towards the strains of an orchestra hard at work - towards the sounds of laughing chatter.  
  
They were late because of the dithering, and the dancing had already begun. Inquisitor Trevelyan was gliding across the dance floor with King Alistair, and they could tell at a glance that she was back-leading the monarch. She had a focused, poised look on her face which looked to the assembly like a leader at ease, but her friends knew she was counting steps.  
  
But Maker’s breath did she look stunning. All of those yards of green fabric were gathered around a bodice that fit snuggly without needing a corset, and then billowed over into a great bell that started at her hips and spilled down to the floor. Gold trim crept its way around every fold, tracing vines around her legs and torso.  
  
The king must have made a joke because he heard her high, clear laugh – the one that was genuine and never forced. When the song ended she curtsied deeply before being approached by Teryn Cousland. She curtsied to his bow and they were joined in the neck dance by the king and queen.  
  
The staff of Skyhold served supper as the dance ended, and the Inquisitor was once again left alone on the dance floor. Cullen stepped forward with a little shove from Josephine, and they began the third dance. Poor Cullen looked a wreck as ladies all over the hall sighed with want. Blackwall bunched his fists and found his way to the edge of the dance floor.  
  
Constance swirled and held steady in Cullen’s arms as they muttered to each other about how ridiculous it all was. Before long though, two lithe fingers tapped her arm, and Leliana took her place with Cullen. Thinking she had been freed, Constance turned to take her place at the head table, but found Blackwall in her way.  
  
He gave her the most elegant bow he could muster and offered her his hand. They continued the waltz in good form. Despite his protests, Blackwall had not forgotten anything about dancing since he had left Orlais. He was elegant and a strong lead. She leaned in to his chest but was stunned to find his heart hammering loud and fast – louder and faster than she had ever heard. “I’m okay, dove,” he assured her, when he heard the gasp form on her lips.  
  
A great sigh filled him, and he knew that spinning with her on the dance floor was the best privacy they could hope for tonight. “My love,” he pulled her closer and spoke in her ear, working to remember all the things he had planned to say to her. “I cannot summon words enough in the world to tell you all of what you mean to me. You are more than I deserve, dove. You are the best of everything and I will never understand why you’ve ever had anything to do with me.” A swell in the music – he held her tight – “We’ve been blessed with a child and the very fact that you would even think of a family with a grubby old man like me—” she shot him a look that said ‘I love you, you idiot’ and he laughed a little before he went on. “Well, it makes me hope you might really want to be a family.” As he reached into his pocket, the orchestra brought the dance to an end. Remarkable timing, he thought, not seeing Dorian signal the conductor.  
  
Something in the pit of Blackwall’s stomach turned to stone as he pulled a handkerchief out into the open. He wrapped her hands around it and peeled back the cloth petals, exposing a shimmering everite band engraved with tiny starbursts that had been augmented with paragon’s luster to make them look like the night sky. That was the only bit he had needed the smithy’s help with – the stars. His hands cupped around hers as she gaped down at the precious bundle between them. “Dove, will you be my wife?” It was a whisper of hope on his lips.  
  
A gasping, bottomless sob shook her whole body and she began to shimmer. Mana dusted her skin, catching firelight and making her sparkle. “Kiss me,” she whispered, and he did. Gently and fully – forgetting there was anyone else in the world but them. When they parted, she did not once take her eyes off of his. “Are you doing this because of the baby?” She whispered.  
  
“No.” It was a fair question. He couldn’t fault her for asking.  
  
“Good.” She beamed at him. “Because I’m not saying yes because of it.”  
  
“Yes?” He was so lost in her eyes he almost couldn’t believe he had heard the word.  
  
“Yes.” She repeated. In one fluid motion she slipped the ring onto her finger and grasped Blackwall’s tunic, pulling him into a deep kiss. And it wasn’t until they parted once more did they remember that they were still standing in a ballroom full of people.  
  
Cheering, screaming, hollering, clapping people.  
  
“Oh, Maker…” Constance flushed a deep, horrible red almost instantly.  
  
“Speech!” A voice shouted. Distinctly Varric’s.  
  
“Forget the speech! Kiss some more!” That was the Bull.  
  
There were their friends, smiling down at them from the dais. “Hip hip!” Dorian prompted and the entire ballroom bellowed, “Huzzah!”


	9. Family

The next morning, Constance and Blackwall were rudely awakened by a pounding on the fore door of the Inquisitor’s quarters. “Oy!” They heard Sera shout. “Special fancy-like breakfast!”  
  
Constance threw on her dressing robe and went to shush her before she woke the entire keep. She found not only Sera, but Dorian and Cassandra outside. Sera rubbed a fist through the Inquisitor’s tangled curls and skittered off.  
  
“Josephine has organized a breakfast for the inner circle and their Majesties.” Dorian told her. “Informal, but it smells divine, so get down here.” He kissed her cheek and followed Sera back down the stairs.  
  
Cassandra teetered on her toes nervously. “Congratulations, Inquisitor—” she started to say, but Constance knew why she was there.  
  
“Have as long a look as you need, Cass.” She extended her hand so the hopeless romantic warrior could inspect Blackwall’s craftsmanship. The Seeker turned it over twice and then three times before pronouncing it stunning. She didn’t always get along with Blackwall, but she approved of happiness.  
  
Once back upstairs in their bedroom, Constance flung herself down on the mattress next to Blackwall, but immediately regretted the decision when her stomach lurched. “Tea,” she muttered, clutching her belly. “I need tea.”  
  
The kitchens must have rallied as soon as they heard the news. Breakfast was all of Constance and Blackwall’s favourites: roast fennec and potatoes, blocks upon blocks of different cheeses, long links of deepstalker sausage (Blackwall’s own recipe from his wanderings) and loaves upon loaves of bread. Not to mention Constance’s favourite lemon lavender sweet rolls and pot upon pot of tea.  
  
“All right.” Constance pulled out a chair to sit down. “How many of you are spending the next three days shoveling horse dung and wrangling snoufleur for not telling me he was planning this?” She asked.  
  
The table snickered. Even Queen Thomasyn looked down at her plate. “All of us.” Cullen finally confessed. (To which the others threw things at him – whatever they had handy.)  
  
“All in good fun, innit?” Sera reminded her. “All knew you’d say yeah.” She took a sip of tea and immediately spat it back out again. “Ugh!" Sera groaned. “Andraste’s tits, what’s this shite?”  
  
“Language, Sera!” Hissed Josephine. The ambassador sipped from her own tea cup, ready to defend the Inquisitor’s choice blend, but her nose wrinkled immediately, and then her jaw dropped and she went pale. “Is this…?”  
  
“I’m fighting a cold, Josie,” Constance tried desperately to keep her tone even. “The kitchens must have thought I was switching over tea blends permanently. I’ll let them know it’s only for a few more days.”  
  
She tried to rise from the table, but Dorian’s hand caught her wrist. “Is this a nausea tincture, cousin?” He kept his eyes on her.  
  
“Yes, I just said I had a cold…”  
  
“You’re lying.” Leliana was gaping down the table.  
  
Solas and Cole exchanged glances. “Why don’t they seem happy?” Cole asked.  
  
“They are, Cole,” Solas explained. “Just also very embarrassed.”  
  
“Would they be happier if they knew there were two?” Cole was trying to be quiet, trying to help. Trying to remember what Varric had taught him about being discreet.  
  
“Two?” Blackwall sputtered and clutched Constance’s free hand.  
  
“Two?” She repeated.  
  
“They’re there,” Cole explained. “They’ve already all there, just not ready yet.” And then, with a smile like a small puppy. “I wish they could say hello, but they’re too new.”  
  
“Maker’s breath…” Vivienne looked positively affronted. “Really, my dear, a little self control—”  
  
“Hold your tongue, madam.” The Queen warned. Friendly was one thing, disrespectful was another.  
  
“Your Majesty, really, it’s okay.” Constance sat back down.  
  
“Forgive me,” the king’s voice broke the mounting tension. “But my wife will attest to my being fairly dense.” Thomasyn and Leliana nodded knowingly. “May I ask what you’re all so shocked about?”  
  
Constance Trevelyan, Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste, betrothed to the best man she had ever known, felt her throat go dry. “Your Majesty, you are privy to a rather private announcement,” her voice cracked. “Blackwall and I—” she squeezed his hand and cast him a tender smile. “Are beginning a family.”  
  
“Yes,” Alistair nodded. “I was present for the proposal, Your Worship.”  
  
Leliana and Thomasyn dropped their foreheads into their hands. How typical of Alistair to need it spelled out for him. Thomasyn patted his hand. “Dearest, Constance is pregnant.”  
  
The table fell silent. The half of the group that had not inferred the news was staring down the length of the table at them. “Maker…” they heard Cullen breathe.  
  
“Well,” Josephine cleared her throat. “It seems there is a wedding to plan, yes?” She smiled – kind and happy for them but also plotting. “It would be quite a scandal for the Herald of Andraste to have a child out of wedlock.”  
  
“Two.” Blackwall was still processing.  
  
“If we have a daughter,” Constance whispered. “Let’s name her Liddy?”  
  
He teared. She truly was remarkable, this woman beside him. “I love you, dove.” He kissed her, to another bout of applause.


	10. Epilogue

Seven years later.  
  
There was more than the usual amount of traffic on the path to the Upper Lake District of the Hunterlands that morning. The little cabin on the pier was full-to-bursting with noise and activity. On the lake’s edge, a boisterous dwarf ruffled the pitch black hair of a boy with broad shoulders, telling him the grand tale of the time the legendary Inquisitor and her handsome dwarven friend conquered a nest of wyvern in the Western Approach.  
  
Men and women moved in and out of the cabin fluidly, drinks in hand and smiles on their faces. From the bottom of the small hill, a horse let loose a whiney and a distinct voice growled, “Fasta vaas!”  
  
A young girl, who had been sitting at the feet of a towering Tal-Vashoth and holding a comically small fishing pole, leapt to her feet and scrambled towards the crest of the hill. “Uncle Dorian!” She was yelling. “Uncle Dorian’s here!”  
  
Dorian Pavus dismounted his horse and scooped the little girl up in his arms. “Hello, amatus,” he smothered her in kisses and gave her a squeezing hug. Her golden-green eyes sparkled at him, laughing joyously.  
  
They walked forward: Liddy holding the horse’s bridle and Dorian holding her in his arms. “Mama!” she called as loud as she could. “Mama! Uncle Dorian’s here!”  
  
From out of the cabin emerged a lithe woman with hair as black as midnight and eyes like firelight. She reached out for Dorian and Liddy scampered away. “They’re enormous,” Dorian hugged her tightly. “You must stop allowing them to grow.”  
  
“I’m afraid they rather have minds of their own.” She laughed, watching her daughter launch into a foot race with Sera, crowing and giggling along the shore.  
  
“Where is the great, hairy lummox?” Dorian asked, keeping one arm around his cousin’s waist as they went into the house.  
  
“In here, you dandy.” Blackwall’s voice was hushed from the other room. They rounded a corner and found him rocking an enormous pile of blankets in his arms. “Shh,” he warned. “She’s just gotten back to sleep.” Constance leaned forward and gently kissed her youngest child on the forehead. The baby stirred, but went on sleeping.  
  
“You’re horribly domesticated,” Dorian announced under his breath. “Shouldn’t we be chasing dragons or vanquishing demons?” He gave his head a good natured shake. “I’m going to go find a drink.”  
  
Outside, the three of them laid the baby in a small crib and joined their friends. Josephine and Cullen were perched on a large rock, watching in awe as Liddy and Keller pitched little bursts of ice across the surface of the lake.  
  
Blackwall wrapped his arms around his wife and held her to his chest. His lips brushed her cheek and she felt him smile. “I love you, dove.”

“And I, you.” She tightened her grip on his arms and watched their children play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're unfamiliar with Blackwall's backstory - Liddy was his sister who died very young. They named her twin brother Keller, after Constance's brother who was murdered just before she was sent to the Circle.


End file.
